In his unconditional love, he gave man thought to learn and progress.
Soon thought took over.
The man and woman began to
demand more, anger arose.
Little by little, they began to attack
all that was holy, the love from which
they were made, and the Truth that testified
to their existence. Anger threw
a stone at the truth, unable to bear its
ugly, distorted, evil face.
Then the lie appeared, wanting to humiliate
it and threw another stone.
Not knowing
to defend itself, the Truth sought refuge.
All this was seen by cunning, luring it
out of hiding, offering protection.
Sincere as it was, it believed, made
a mistake and came out. At that moment, Pride and Jealousy appear, now so distraught over their true face that they could not bear. The light is covered by darkness, ashamed of the naked, unprotected truth. Everyone wonders where God is, why the Creator allows everything to happen before His eyes. God is love, He gave us free will. Man is prone to abuse it, he can do whatever he wants for a while, but not for as long as he wants. Light is stronger than darkness, the truth will come out and show itself when the time comes. Until then, we are given free will to reconsider our actions.
Biography
Melita Mely Ratković
Born in Yugoslavia, married, mother of two sons. After the collapse of the state, from one of the former republics there, Croatia, she moved to Serbia, where she still lives today in the city of Novi Sad. She has been engaged in poetry since she was young, she is talented, she studies foreign languages and is engaged in translation.
Translator of Spanish, Portuguese, English, Bengali.
Profession and cultural activity: Literary ambassador of Serbia in Brazil and Spain.
Accredited as an international ambassador of the Circle of the International Chamber of Writers and Artists
CIESART
With the authority to initiate cultural activities authorized by the presidency of the Circle of Cultural Ambassadors in the World, non-profit, for the dissemination of the work, its author and its erudition, especially taking into account the altruism and peace of the people
She participated in the HYPERPOEM Anthology for the Guinness Book of Records
Participated in several anthologies, world heritage.
She was nominated as one of the 50 important women of Europe”
In Rome, Italy, on November 11 and 12, two very important events were held at the Pontifical Antonianum University _ the conference of world literary leaders of the “50 Important Women of Europe” project.
Global Federation of Leadership and High Intelligence
Winning the 2023 “Zheng Nian Cup” Literary Award Third Prize by the Beijing Mindfulness Literature Museum.
The winner
V PLATINUM EAGLE 2024
GLOBAL FEDERATION OF LEADERSHIP AND HIGH INTELLIGENCE
OFFICIAL DIPLOMA
WALHAC World Academy of Literature, Art and Culture
MIL MENTES POR MÉXICO Internacional
World Awards for Excellence
She is an immortal academician of the following academies:
INTERNATIONAL AMBASSADOR OF “GAONES” For Serbia,
(Gaonesa is a literary structure created by writer Edwin Antonio Gaona Salinas from Ecuador
AIAP – ACADEMIA INTERCONTINENTAL de Artistas y Poetas – Brazil
Academia Mundial de Cultura y Literatura AMCL – Brazil
Academia de Música y Literatura Artística – Brazil
Academia Democrática Independiente de Escritores y Poetas – Brazil
Biblioteca Mundial Academia de Letras y Poesía – Brazil
CILA Confraternidad Internacional de Literatura y Artes
Why are these poems called ‘Echoes?” Are you referencing echoes of themes throughout history, or the myth of Echo and Narcissus, or something else?
“The title ‘Echoes’ operates on multiple resonances. In Mandarin, we have a proverb from the Buddhist poet-monk Li Shutong (李叔同) of the late Qing dynasty: ‘A thought that’s constantly in mind comes with an echo in its might.’ This captures how persistent thoughts reverberate through time and consciousness.
For me, poetry exists as a trifecta—history’s weight, mythic truth, and individual experience. These three elements form an indivisible triangle; remove one, and the structure collapses. When this hybrid translates through memory into verse, it becomes an echo—not unlike the relationship between sound and its aftersound, between experience and its poetic afterlife.
The myth of Echo and Narcissus haunts these poems too, particularly in how exile creates a doubling: we speak, but hear our words return transformed by distance. Every poem here is both utterance and return, original cry and its distortion through time.
We make the echo first, in our bodies and memories, before we ever write it down. The page merely catches what’s already reverberating.”
How and why have Lermontov and Akhmatova become your inspirations? What do you see in their works that you admire, and how have you brought that into your own pieces?
I knew this question would come, and even arranging these words brings me to tears—because Lermontov and Akhmatova represent the two chambers of my heart, the systole and diastole of my poetic existence.
Akhmatova embodies the terrible arithmetic of staying. Her choice to remain in Soviet Russia while others fled mirrors my own negotiations with homeland and exile. In ‘Requiem,’ she transforms personal grief—lamenting her imprisoned son—into an indictment of state terror. What strikes me most is her austere precision: barely a league of emotion, yet each line cuts like winter glass. Her contemporaries in the Silver Age either genuflected to power or dissolved into their own despair. She alone maintained that devastating clarity. The Swedish Academy recoiled from giving her the Nobel precisely because her truth was too graphic, too unadorned.
Her sacrifice illuminates my own: the mother tongue I’ve had to half-forfeit (in China, to write freely means surveillance; in the West, to be heard means English); the treasures left behind; the solitude required to build an inner world strong enough for creation. This ‘elegant restraint’ you detect in my work is learned stoicism—a necessary armor. Yet beneath it pulses radical empathy for all exiles, geographic or internal. Though we’ve never met, I hear their scream: ‘I want to live!’
If Akhmatova is my yin—witnessing, enduring, distilling—then Lermontov is pure yang: the romantic who transmutes oppression into fury. Where she documents, he detonates. His ‘The Poet’s dead’ and ‘The Cloud’ demonstrate how anger can become incandescent art. Those unsettling, haunting images in my work? They’re Lermontov’s ghost teaching me that sometimes the only response to injustice is to set the page on fire, even at the cost of forfeiting one’s own homeland to uphold one’s self amidst divisive currents.
Together, they’ve taught me that poetry can be both scalpel and flame, both witness and warrior. In my work, Akhmatova’s ice meets Lermontov’s fire, creating steam—that vapor between staying and leaving, between silence and scream, where my own poems breathe.”
Interesting that you identify Western and traditional Chinese poetic styles and take elements of each into your poems. What has it been like to craft poetry as a bilingual person? Do you compose in English or Mandarin, do you think in both languages as you write? Do you find that languages themselves, and their rhythms, shape the content or structure of your poems?
The chasm between Chinese and English poetic traditions has shaped me profoundly. Chinese poetry luxuriates in indirection—every plum blossom speaks volumes, each bamboo bend carries philosophy. The poet becomes a humble conduit between nature and reader, never presuming to explain what moonlight on water means. We trust the image to carry its own enlightenment. A closing line merely ‘dots the dragon’s eyes’—essential, yes, but the dragon was already alive in the preceding verses.
English poetry, particularly contemporary Western verse, demands the opposite: clarity as virtue, economy as craft. The poet must architect meaning, not merely channel it. During my first three years writing in English, feedback was consistent: ‘Powerful images, moving emotions, but requires multiple readings.’ Even my lightest lines carried what readers called ‘fatalistic gravity’—that ancient Chinese sense that every gesture contains the universe’s weight.
I spent years trying to reconcile these approaches: the Western praise for accessibility versus the Chinese understanding that ‘nature and human are one’ (天人合一). Only through accumulated life experience—exile, loss, resistance—did I find my synthesis. Now I can achieve ‘readability’ without sacrificing depth, can make a vestment ‘smile’ without explaining why, can connect continents through a seagull’s flight rather than abrupt temporal markers.
I compose primarily in English now, partly due to my Western-focused studies, but mostly because writing in my non-native language offers productive estrangement. It forces me to reinvent rather than inherit, to forge new synaptic connections between sound and meaning. When I write, what emerges isn’t English or Mandarin but something pre-linguistic—an unmodified rumble from my core that chooses its own linguistic vessel. In those moments, we touch the pure pulse of living through sound alone.
Language itself has never been my architect—at most, a carpenter smoothing edges or filling gaps. Emotion, urgency, and message determine form. A protest poem might emerge as experimental fragments (like Echo IV’s compact brutality) or as prose poetry (Echo III’s voice flowing like water from one throat to thousands). The content births its own container, not the reverse. This is perhaps my deepest inheritance from both traditions: the Chinese faith that form follows spirit, married to the English insistence that spirit must find communicable form.”
I notice a theme of human suffering at the hands of others: a violent husband and refugees who flee violence and find themselves still marginalized in their new lands. What draws you to those themes?
It’s a delicate and profound question. I’m drawn to these themes because I’m deeply intrigued by how systems can deform individuals, transforming ordinary or even decent human beings into figures capable of profound cruelty. Often, an individual’s personal agency is eroded or contested when societal structures thrive upon their trauma or tacitly condone violence. To explore this phenomenon further, one must investigate educational, cultural, and economic factors that silently breed violence and perpetuate suffering.
Crime and tragedy serve as the quietest yet deepest reflections of a society’s wounds—visible only to those who dare look closely. Similarly, the experiences of refugees reveal another dimension of these wounds. Throughout seven years living in the UK, I’ve formed friendships with individuals from diverse global backgrounds. Their narratives of familial histories in London, wars in their homelands, and the existential struggles of reconciling dreams with harsh realities have profoundly impacted me. I’ve realized that we all inhabit a liminal space between war and peace, where understanding and empathy are always possible if we actively listen, both to ourselves and to the voices around us.
Ultimately, my poetry aspires to provide solace, however fleeting, to those who feel exiled or alienated, offering a momentary sense of belonging or home within the shared recognition of our collective struggle.
You mention in your author’s note that “nature is also a teacher.” How do the natural motifs and the natural world function in your poems?
Nature serves as both messenger and medium. Whenever I encounter emotions too visceral for straightforward speech, I invite the natural world to translate. Trees, flowers, and coastlines vibrate on the same frequency as those gut‑level feelings, bridging the space between stanzas—and between reader and poet.
Nature also acts as a critical mirror: it reveals that the so-called “survival codes” running through our societies did not blossom from some higher ethical soil but from the stark physics of scarcity and fear. By foregrounding that origin, I aim to question whether these codes are immutable or merely inherited habits we’ve yet to dismantle. When I return to the image of a red beacon strobing across a storm-dark shoreline, I’m less interested in its drama than in its dual function—how a safeguard doubles as a boundary, how protection can slip into quiet temptation to what’s beyond. In that uneasy glow, I probe the complicity between safety and sanguine, asking what the comfort of eternity cost and how the sense aliveness ultimately pays toll of solitude without regret.
Do you think your writing has changed over time? How would you describe your style, and how you’ve developed it?
Absolutely. Writing evolves like any living organism. My first English poems were dense with elusive imagery, and my abandoned early novel—steeped in Woolfian stream-of-consciousness—never balanced character and plot in a way that felt authentic to me at nineteen.
Since then, I’ve forged a dialogue between poetry and prose. Poetry lends my novels an unshakable moral backbone, distilling complex ideas into crystalline sentences that anchor entire volumes. Novel-writing, in turn, lets me dissect psychology in slow motion, testing poetic abstractions inside fully realized narrative worlds. The result is a style that marries lyrical precision with narrative clarity, allowing abstraction and realism to coexist on the page.
What are you writing now, and where do you hope writing will take you in the future?
I’m currently developing a work of literary fiction that grows directly out of the remnants of my earlier, shelved Woolf‑inspired experiment. Rooted in Eastern European culture, literature, and the region’s stark natural landscapes, the novel filters wider Eurasian geopolitics through the intimate lens of a single life. At the center lies a decent man whose unhealed trauma becomes the very fuel a rigid system uses to reshape him, asking: When the machinery of power profits from pain, how much freedom of choice truly remains?
Alongside his story runs that of a woman determined to carve and protect a private sanctuary—“a room of her own”—in a world where every pane of glass has been forged by the system that would surveil her. Their intertwined narratives let me probe two core questions: What inner resources does it take for a person to resist the constant pull of manipulation, and what must be sacrificed to guard even a sliver of autonomy?
I hope this project—and whatever follows—will lead me toward sharper, more honest inquiries rather than easy conclusions, using language to expose the complex textures of lived experience and to keep testing the fragile boundaries of individual freedom.
With the prevalence of social media and growing societal expectations, it has become increasingly common for individuals to voice their frustrations and opinions online, particularly in technologically advanced societies. While there are valid reasons for expressing dissatisfaction on such platforms, I strongly assert that this trend has both harmful consequences and meaningful benefits. On the one hand, it may increase negativity and affect mental health; on the other, it can raise public awareness and lead to quicker solutions for social problems.
One of the major consequences of this trend is the spread of negativity online, which can significantly impact individuals’ mental well-being. As more people share complaints and disappointments about their lives, it creates a cycle of emotional dissatisfaction that others are exposed to daily. This constant exposure can lead users to feel more anxious, discontent, or even inferior, especially when comparing their own lives to what they see online. Over time, such emotional stress can damage people’s mental health and reduce the overall positivity of online spaces.
Despite these downsides, public complaints on social media also offer a significant benefit: they can serve as a catalyst for change. By bringing issues such as poor infrastructure, low-quality services, or political concerns into the public eye, individuals can draw attention from government bodies, service providers, and the media. For example, in Uzbekistan, citizens often highlight poor road conditions via social platforms. In many cases, these posts go viral and prompt authorities to respond quickly. In this way, social media empowers ordinary people to contribute to community development and hold institutions accountable.
In conclusion, although venting frustrations on social media can negatively affect users’ mental health by spreading pessimism and stress, it also allows people to highlight societal problems and demand immediate action. Thus, while the trend may carry emotional risks, it plays a vital role in raising awareness and pushing for positive change.
My name is Rashidova Jasmina, daughter of Bahodir. I was born on November 23rd, 2008, in Shakhrisabz district, located in the Kashkadarya Region of Uzbekistan. I am currently a 10th-grade student at School No. 74.
Throughout my academic journey, I have proudly taken part in numerous educational grants, national seminars, and academic meetings. I am a winner of several contests and competitions dedicated to education and innovation. Notably, I was a finalist in both the “BBG” and “FO” programs, which further motivated my passion for leadership and community development.
One of my most prestigious achievements includes being awarded the “Katta Liderlar” grant, which recognizes young emerging leaders in Uzbekistan. I also had the honor of participating as a delegate representing Switzerland in a Model United Nations (MUN) conference, where I strengthened my skills in diplomacy, negotiation, and global issues.
In addition to my academic accomplishments, I run my own educational channel, where I teach and mentor students in various subjects. I am also the founder and instructor of a Pixel Art course, where I combine creativity with digital skills to inspire others in the field of design and technology.
Christopher Bernard celebrates the photography of urban chronicler Vivian Maier and the recent rediscovery of her work.
Gopal Lahiri’s poetry looks over varied landscapes – aging city infrastructure, a painted teatime scene, a rainstorm – with a painter’s thoughtful eye.
Wazed Abdullah draws on soft, childlike language to elegantly portray a monsoon rain in Bangladesh. Don Bormon writes in a similar style of the rain’s return in the region after a hot sunny summer. Tamoghna Dey speaks to the strength and flexibility of water as a metaphor.
Eva Petropoulou Lianou finds union with nature on her daily walk, taking inspiration from its diversity and authenticity. David Sapp’s poetry highlights our human connection to the rest of nature through musings on barns, fields, and a dead cat.
Chimezie Ihekuna revels in the beauty of nature and the intricate ways in which its systems work and creatures survive, but warns of its destruction. Graciela Noemi Villaverde also urges care for the natural world and highlights how natural systems can self-heal and regenerate.
Sayani Mukherjee revels in the passage of seasons in nature as Kylian Cubilla Gomez explores the hidden world of snails, centering the small mollusk in his photos. Sara Hunt-Flores reflects on the sun lighting her path, helping her distinguish illusion from reality.
Svetlana Rostova uses nature metaphors to convey the breadth and intensity of her past experiences. Mahbub Alam compares falling in love to the wonder of seeing a firefly. Shamsiya Khudoynazarova Turumnova illuminates the way love can revive a person and rejuvenate their life. Dr. Prasanna Kumar Dalai evokes memory and the ecstasy of falling in love. Mesfakus Salahin pleads with a lover to take him back as a response to his enduring feelings.
Stephen Jarrell Williams reflects on the poignancy and power of stories: those in books and those of family love and passing generations. Kassandra Aguilera’s poetry expresses love that remains despite troubled parental relationships. Bill Tope’s short story addresses a platonic and artistic friendship between a man and a woman and the tragic social disapproval that drives them apart.
Scott C. Holstad probes various sorts of physical and emotional desire. Duane Vorhees speaks to birth and death, love and war, then turns to a personal blues poem about feeling disillusioned by faith.
Gordana Saric offers up a prayer for personal compassion and global peace. Brian Barbeito shares daily musings on meaning and ethics and and speculates on our individual lives’ effects on the universe. Inayatullah encourages us all to look inward and heal our inner wounds and forgive each other in order to change the world on a larger scale.
Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa shares the hope and strength and healing she finds through her faith. K. Sayyid Mubashir Hadhi explicates the spiritual and cultural significance of Eid Al-Adha. Timothee Bordenave’s old-style pieces express his spiritual faith and desire for universal oneness. Bruce Mundhenke expresses how faith and wisdom can outlast our technologies and our inhumanity to each other. R.K. Singh calls us to ethnic and religious tolerance based on the world’s complex history and celebrates physical and spiritual love.
Dr. Jernail Singh speculates on how literature and drama, religious or not, can inspire moral development as well as catharsis, when villainy and evil are stopped. Matthew Kinlin interviews Kenneth M. Cale about the inspirations and creative process behind his book Midnight Double Feature: Director’s Cut, a stand against the growing darkness he sees in the world.
Lidia Popa describes the power of writing to transmute ideas and feelings into a mode of communication from one soul to another. Haroon Rashid outlines the role of silence, observation, and empty space for thoughtful writing in his ars poetica.
Xadjiyeva Nodira studies idioms and whether the phrases can take on different meanings within the same language. Kaljanova Gulmira’s paper outlines the benefits of having a language learner “shadow” a native speaker. Shahnoza Ochildiyeva’s essay explicates the complex task of translation and how, as of now, translation requires a human being with cultural awareness.
Isabel Gomes de Diego’s photography celebrates human and natural creativity in various forms: origami, sewing, typing. Bahora Mansurova turns to the craft of medicine, discussing ways to treat periodontal diseases. Linda S. Gunther reviews Kristina McMorris’ suspense novel of the newsroom, Sold on a Monday.
Nozima Gofurova describes an educational visit to Tashkent’s Mirzo Hotel, where she learned about Central Asian art and history. Joseph Ogbonna highlights the majesty and historical influence of ancient Egyptian civilization. Maja Milojkovic’s ekphrastic work draws inspiration from the strength of ancient Herakles.
Z.I. Mahmud explores feminist speculative literature in India and the works of Begum Rokeya Sakhawat Hossein. Bhagirath Choudhary, in a piece translated by Eva Petropoulou Lianou, advocates for respect for women and for society to celebrate positive traits traditionally associated with the nurturing feminine.
Eva Petropoulou Lianou speaks of her intimate and demanding relationship with her female poetic muse. Isaac Dominion Aju reflects on the artistic inspiration he received from Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, whose work helped him to find his own voice. Donna Dallas’ poetic speakers find writing inspiration from a quiet morning, a busy urban city full of desire, and the throes of drug addiction. Hauwa’u Naseer Mukhtar evokes the peace and creative source of solitude as Chloe Schoenfeld resolutely affirms her claim to her own soul.
Kelly Moyer’s asemic poetry invites us to the experience of appreciating writing and art, even without literal meaning. Ric Carfagna’s poetry touches on perception, how we experience and make sense of our world.
Loki Nounou reflects on life’s unpredictability, as S. Afrose exposes existence’s slippery nature, complex and hard to pin down and define. Utso Bhattacharyya’s short story involves an ordinary man’s visit to a surreal reality existing alongside and within our own.
Alex S. Johnson’s horror tale probes the insidious way oppression works not only through violence, but also through individual and social gaslighting. Mark Young’s poetry crafts off-kilter scenes where people and other creatures adjust to their settings.
J.J. Campbell turns to poignant nostalgia while experiencing slow trauma. John Angelo Camomot’s verse speaks to the grief of losing a loved one and the comfort of memories.
Sean Meggeson’s humorous tales probe our relationships with authority and failures of communication. On the theme of authority, Taylor Dibbert observes wryly that leaders who are least affected by policies are often the first to advocate for them.
Mykyta Ryzhykh’s short story depicts war as an unwelcome trespasser, refusing to communicate its intentions or ask permission to occupy someone’s basement. Ahmed Miqdad laments the suffering of civilians in Gaza while expressing hope for the region. Combat veteran Steven Croft speculates on goals for a possible return to United States military intervention in Afghanistan and hopes they will finally get girls back to school.
